Glad Tidings

Iverton is one of those small, quaint villages that are the subject of countless holiday postcards. At least when postcards were popular. Apart from the very occasional visitor who has somehow drifted completely from their route, an increasingly rare event as GPS systems become more reliable, the town is left to its own devices. However, I found myself to be one such unintentional visitor well over thirty years ago, when mobile phones were yet to be reliably developed.

It was Christmas Eve, and I was to meet my large, extended family to celebrate in a spacious house rented by one of my wealthy great uncles, who, usually an energetic and adventurous soul, suddenly felt overwhelmed by the vicissitudes of a long life and was trying to meet with as many of his kinfolk as possible, before it was no longer possible. Apart from the usual family reunion, I had a particular reason for looking forward to the evening, but the event I had planned for some weeks looked increasingly unlikely to occur that night as the dark roads succumbed to an ever increasing white, treacherous mantle.

I found myself peering with tired, reddened eyes through a windscreen that refused to divest itself of the slushy deluge which threatened to bring the windscreen wipers to a grinding halt. I needed to stop, and Iverton offered the only possibility of refuge from the raging wintry storm.

The village looked unpromising; there being only a handful of shops and one substantial pub in what passed for the high street. Luckily the pub advertised accommodation, so I tried to find somewhere to park, without success. The road was full of vehicles of all kinds ranging from tiny two-seater contraptions to an ancient Bentleigh sitting uncomfortably between a number of agricultural tractors. It seemed that the entire village and the local populace had descended on the only source of social entertainment for miles. Reluctantly I left my car in front of a dilapidated gate with a sign announcing in faded, time worn letters, “Merrin’s Sheep Farm”. The gate looked to be rutted firmly into the ground, so I guessed it was rarely, if ever, used. Quickly grabbing an overnight case I trudged the half mile to The Smugglers’ Cove.

Entering the pub was in itself an adventure, sub-zero temperature was replaced with an almost unbearable heat emanating from dozens of bodies and a large wood fire in the far corner. A thick, silent downfall of snowflakes was replaced with a cacophony of music and human voices, laughter echoed from the tall oak, mediaeval roof. My luggage case and I apologetically made our way through the various groups to the bar.

Whilst there was a large crowd being served by at least half a dozen bar staff, there was one short queue in front of a middle-aged barmaid who seemed to be the proprietor judging from the instructions she would occasionally call out to other staff. She would also call out random names at which one of the throng would walk over and join this constant but small group apparently under her particular care.

I tentatively joined this elite line, noticing that, as well as handing over drinks to each customer, she would give a piece of advice or instruction. “There you go Tom, pint of cider and a sherry, an’ tell Iris she needs to keep putting fresh milk in with the puppies feed to get them healthy.” As Tom left with his order a tall, much older man replaced him,. “Ah Isaac, usual brown an’ mild? Milly sends her love, says yer needs to give the pigs more taters an’ she’ll be seein’ yer soon.” Isaac carried away his glass with what can only be described as an expression of mixed emotions. Finally, the person in front of me was served.

“That’ll be three fifty Dan, an’ yer twelve gauge needs cleanin’. Pascoe says otherwise next time you goes huntin’ you’ll be seein; him a lot quicker than you’d like.

“Thanks Stella.” Stella turned two inquisitive, grey blue eyes in my direction at the same time adjusting a paper party hat that threatened to slip down her tied-back, dark, grey-streaked hair. I raised my voice above the surrounding babble.

“I need a room for the night.”

“A room, now? It’s Christmas Eve?”

“Yes, sorry if it’s a problem but the roads are blocked. The snow. I’m on my way to Lower Calder’. Dan, who had stopped near the bar to seek out an empty seat, piped up in a bass Devonian growl.

“Lower Caldermeade, yew wonts get there tonight m’boy maybe not tomorrer neether.” He smiled mischievously at me and said in an even deeper voice, “Zumtimes the snow blocks it for weeks.” He looked at Stella with a knowing nod.

Stella gave him a shake of her head and sighed.. “Stop scarin’ the customers Dan. d I’ll see to the young gen’lman. Zelda!”

As if on cue a young girl’s head appeared from the base of a stairwell to the left of the bar.

“Yes, Stella?”

“We’ve a guest. Make up room fourteen.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve!”

“I knows wot day it is girl, now jest do as I say.”

The head disappeared up the stairwell leaving an indistinguishable muttering behind.

Stella turned back to me. “You have one o’ those credit cards, we’ve just got a, oh what’s it called again?” her look of annoyance turned to one of achievement, “Wi-fi, that’s it, we’ve just had a wi-fi installed.”

After organising my payment for the stay, and leaving my case behind the bar I looked dubiously for an empty seat where I could enjoy my Cornish Ale. “Over ‘ere young ‘un.” It was Dan. He was  pointing to an empty chair at a table surrounded by himself and three others. Gratefully I smiled and sat.

“This be John, Matthew, and his wife Eliza.” All four of them were of the same age although what this was precisely would be impossible to guess, given the weather worn features from which bright, intelligent eyes revealed an irrepressible energy that seemed to be a feature of all the townspeople. “From where you be?” Dan asked in a syntactically novel way.

“London, Hampstead to be precise. My family have leased a house in Lower Calder for Christmas. I was supposed to be there but,” I nodded out the window at the endless flurries of snowflakes. “I couldn’t drive any more, the roads and the snow. It’s a bit of a disaster really.”

“Not really a disaster surely?” said John querulously. “I mean, you’re safe, not where you want ter be but safe. Would’er bin worse if you’d carried on drivin’ young man.”

“I stared at my glass and shook my head. “No, I see your point but tonight I was going to,” I faltered, emotional. Eliza leaned forward and touched my hand,

“What, what’s troubling yer?”

“I was going to propose to my girlfriend, we’ve been together for almost a year, and I thought with Christmas, a large old house in Cornwall, well it would be the perfect place and time.” I decided not to say that I had lost the engagement ring, another thing that was worrying me. One day it had been safely in a box in my pocket but mysteriously had vanished. I even thought I had been the victim of a pickpocket, but the box was still there, just the ring was missing.

Eliza gave me an understanding smile. “Don’t yew fret now. It’s often loik this but by tomorrer itll be gone, yew’ll see. Just ‘ave ter propose a day later is all. I thought you’d perhaps come fer the tidings.”

Matthew looked a little embarrassed, “He’s not from round these parts, Lizzy, so he’ll not know about the tidings.”

“Tidings?” I asked.

Eliza, unabashed, answered, “The tidings from Pascoe and Tressa, the whole village comes here every Christmas Eve to see if they’ve got messages.”

“Pascoe and Tressa?” I was completely confused and wondering if the ale was stronger than it tasted. Matthew gave a resigned shrug, looking pleadingly at Dan who came to his rescue.

“Story goes that Pascoe and Tressa were two youngsters, probably a mite younger than you. They met here in the village at the annual Christmas market. It were Christmas Eve. Cold like, as yer’d expect but not quite freezing and no snow.

They came from two hamlets each about ten miles to the east and west from the village. With only horse and carts for transport it was understandable the two had never met before, this was the first time they’d bin ter the market. It were love at first sight. Not some sort of youthful passion, no this were the real thing, they met and each knew they belonged together.

The story goes that they went walkin’ by the river. There were three boys down at the riverbank skylarkin’ and tryin’ to skate on the ice that had formed the night previous. One of them fell though into the water, it’s deep and fast hereabouts so the youngster had no chance.

Pascoe didn’t hesitate. He dived in to grab the lad but struggled against the current. He managed to get t’ the bank where the young boy clung onto a half-submerged tree but Pascoe, well, he were swept downriver. Tressa, she follows her newly found love but can’t reach him. The rescued boy with his pals came back to the village and a search were made but it was only hours later that they finds her, frozen to death, still cradling Pascoe’s body.”

“It’s a good story,” I said, ‘but what about these tidings, what are they exactly.”

Dan looked a little annoyed, “I’m getting’ ter that young man. You see that night, Christmas Eve, remember, one o’ the women in the village, Bronnen, claimed to have been contacted by Tressa an’ told her where she and Pascoe could be found. The next morning, Christmas Day, they found the couple exactly where Bronnen said they’d be. Tressa frozen, still cradling the body of Pascoe at the side of the river.

Every Christmas Eve Bronnen passed on messages from the tragic couple maybe in an effort to bring some good from their own loss. When Bronnen passed, her daughter did the same and so it’s continued over the decades. Stella, you see, is Bronnen’s great, great, great granddaughter.”

As he said this, I glanced over to the bar, noticing that the small line in front of Stella continued as before. It was then that Stella suddenly looked across at me and called my name. “Mr. Dewar, Alan Dewar.”

Eliza grinned elfishly at her husband, “Maybe she does have some tidings for him.”

Matthew replied, “Don’t be daft woman, it’ll be ter tell him ‘is room’s ready is all.”

It was an entertaining story, but I refused to be fooled. This was a place of superstition built on centuries of isolation from the wider world. Wi-fi was an innovation here and it would take more than my logical and I daresay unwanted reasoning to try to convince them otherwise.

Before joining the queue, Stella called me to one side. “Your room is ready,” For some inexplicable reason, I felt almost relieved as if I had almost believed Dan’s incredible story. Then she continued, “an’ Tressa says the ring is in the lining of your jacket, there’s a small hole in the corner of the pocket see, it worked itself out of the box an’ fell though there.” The world was swimming, it did not make sense, no one knew of the missing ring except me. But Stella had not yet finished.

“Pascoe says that Merrin will need his gate clear tomorrer, so you’d better stop being inconsiderate and move yer horseless carriage first thing in the mornin’.” She smiled at my look of incredulity, “His words, not mine.”